Out of Sight
by To-AntigoneEvenstar
Summary: What if the episode ended differently, and left Hawkeye permanently blinded? A brief look at his life post 5.4 without a happy ending. Oneshot.


This has been sitting for a while. I finally finished it. A few notes: I tried to keep people in character, with at least some historical accuracy. If some attitudes towards what we now know as PTSD, or even Hawkeye's blindess are incorrect, please note that these are not my personal opinions but merely my attempt at recreating opinions of fictional characters.

* * *

"I would be lying, Father, if I said the thought never crossed my mind before. It certainly has, but never as a full-fledged thought, just a wisp of an idea, a diluted theory. It was something I considered about as seriously as Frank considers surgery- not at all, in case you didn't follow."

For his part, Father Mulcahy had to keep reminding himself to respond orally.

"Yes, I follow you, Pierce."

"Good, good. Well, as I was saying, it was not something that un-crossed my mind, but not really. I thought- I really thought that I would either be going home as the dearly departed, former fantastic surgeon Hawkeye Pierce, or after everyone finally stopped shooting and decided to pack it up. I mean yeah, I patch up kids and sometimes they get sent back home with pieces missing, but somehow I never thought that I would be counted in that particular population pool."

Perhaps the hardest part was watching Hawkeye stay still, having recently discovered the folly of moving too much inside the Chaplain's tent. It was simply too small and too unfamiliar for someone who couldn't see the desk, chairs, chaplain, altar, etc. So the doctor remained seated, even as his manic energy tried to make do with simply shuffling in his chair and waving his arms. By this point in the talk, half a dozen things would have been touched, fiddled with, placed back. Not today.

"And I mean, I'm a surgeon! Not just a doctor, or a school nurse handing out lollipops and band-aids to kids with scuffed knees. I admit, I always wanted to go back, just-" And Pierce fiddled with his robe, yanking the belt and retying, "Just not at the cost of everything I considered myself to be, you know?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, Pierce. Truthfully, it would take quite a bit to keep me from being a priest in some facility or another. Is it maybe possible for you, as well? That is to say, I know you can't be a surgeon anymore, but surely medicine isn't altogether impossible. Teaching, perhaps. You could lead a new generation of minds to surgery, even- Lord forgive me for saying this- weed out future Frank Burns."

He was rewarded with a snorting chuckle, halfway between amusement and disbelief.

"Don't worry, Father, I won't ruin your reputation by spreading that last bit around." And saying this he stood up, and the chaplain reached out to guide his friend safely out the door. "I'm sure you mean well, but right now the thought of living like this has got me so riled up I can barely think straight. A stupid accident in a stupid place in a stupid war I never signed up for, never wanted or asked for, and now my life is completely shot to hell!"

They had stalled by the door, and Mulcahy could have kicked himself. Pierce was always so stalwart, even as he complained and kicked up a fuss that it was easy to assume he was farther down the road than he actually was.

"Pierce, I'm sor-"

"No, don't apologize. I'm sorry too, especially for swearing. Although technically, I did hear you use that word in your sermon last sunday."

It was a weak shot, but it meant more than the actual apology.

"It's quite all right, I'm sure the Lord understands you're under great duress. And I wish I could be of more help to you right now. That's all I meant when I suggested what I did to you. Ah! But here, before you go, I have something for you."

"A present? For me? Father, you shouldn't have!" Lowering his voice and smirking, he added, "What would your Bishop say?"

"Here, Pierce. It's an address book, filled with all the proper stateside contact information from everyone in camp. I'm sorry it isn't in Braille, but at least your father can help you on that end. We- I, at least, would like to keep in touch after the war."

"Police Action, Father. But sure, sure. I, ah, B.J has mine, plus I'm sure Radar could search me out in his sleep. Pets can be quite loyal like that, you know."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Well, thanks for everything, Father. And if I never see you again, put in a good word for me with the Big Guy, okay?"

"Yes, okay, Pierce. We're going to miss you."

"Especially once Ferret Face starts acting up, I know."

Well, it _was_ nice having that particular barrier to help absorb Frank Burn's special brand of...existing, but Father Mulcahy didn't mean that.

"More than that, Pierce, you really- you really helped make this MASH feel- well not like home, exactly, but bearable. Interesting, certainly. I don't-"

"It's fine, Father, I think I get the gist of it. And the same goes for you."

"Thanks. Please do look up my sister when you get back."

"Of course. Keep your holy head down, Chaplain."

"I'll certainly try."

* * *

The first time Hawkeye attends a surgery back in the States is an extremely difficult experiment, although not for the reasons he had anticipated.

At first, all goes as expected. He technically isn't supposed to be here, but he has always used anything to his advantage, and finds himself seated among (presumably) wide-eyed, attentive, young, medical students. As the actual surgery starts, he finds himself incredibly confused.

It smells all wrong.

It's too _clean_ , not to mention quiet. The pace seems to crawl by, and it takes everything inside not to yell at the surgeon to _hurry it up, the other boys haven't got all day_.

Where is the commotion? Margaret would have fussed over at least two different nurses by now, Radar and Klinger bustling in and out, Col. Potter spinning a yarn as Frank whined and B.J plus his own witty self spoke (and doctored) circles around him. And maybe a bomb or two, just to shake things up.

And the smell was- noxious. Wrong. Surgery smelled like Army, like canvas tents and dusty wood and too much blood with just a touch of foot fungus. It smells like Korea, like dust and explosives all plopped down beside someone's field. It doesn't smell like- like whatever _this_ is. The cleanliness smells heavy and sharp, the quiet grates, and now _Hawkeye_ Benjamin Franklin Pierce is angry because the surgery he hated so much is the only thing he actually associates with surgery now, and it's just another thing he left behind in that STUPID war.

Still, he sticks it out until they finally finish, but he doesn't stick around. He steps on a lot of toes on the way out, and just shouts back 'Physician, heal thyself' when they fuss at him.

He doesn't really know where he is, just follows the voices that seem to be going out, and manages to reach outside. There is a new uncomfortable awareness now, just one more _new_ on top of everything else he's been dumped with.

They say war is hell, but no one ever warned him that coming home wasn't a cakewalk, either.

* * *

Pierce wakes up, and he's still in Korea.

Except not really, but parts of him can't tell the difference. Although he should associate things in a certain progression, he doesn't. It's all skewed, then ripped apart. So instead of: Bacon, morning, breakfast, dad, Maine, _home,_ it goes more like: Bacon, Korea, what time is it, did Radar requisition this, get B.J and go raiding, don't let Frank find out, where are my boots?

And then he would open his eyes, see nothing, and finally work it all together. Once he'd managed to piece everything properly, he would clunk his way downstairs (tradition demanded, he'd been clunking for decades now and his dad would have a heart-attack if he didn't) and complain to his dad about _taking his favorite pieces of bacon, didn't he have any decency, stealing from a blind man? Let alone his son!_

As thrilled as he is to be back in the Land of Apple Pie, for some reason he still forgets he isn't not there. Here. Dammit. Whichever. Not being in Korea was a difficult concept, because everything started from that basic starting point of 'Something feels wrong in the MASH'. Well of course there was, he wasn't in the MASH anymore, so _obviously_ it wouldn't feel like a tiny sewage hole stuck in a garbage dump.

He blamed the fact that, without his eyes, it was that much harder to situate himself. His mental map still based everything relative to Seoul, not Crabapple Cove.

Or maybe everyone else had this same problem. Did Trapper? He wanted to ask, but he still hadn't brought himself to contact him. He should.

Just- not yet. Preferably not ever if he was honest.

There are good days. These are the few, precious, moments of spun gold that hang around effortlessly- pull too hard, and they're ruined. These are the days when Hawkeye uses his wit as something more than a coping mechanism, when the humor comes easily, when he can laugh at everything including himself. He can practically smell his dad's relief on these days, but it doesn't grate -much-, because he's too busy seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

Well not really, but it was a metaphorical light anyway.

There are the bad days. The times he runs (sometimes literally, dad WARN me when you go moving furniture!) into the realization that his eyes no longer saw, all those times he worried about his hands but his eyes were the ones that betrayed him in the end. These days when he's fighting again, but this time against himself and the new rules ( _limitations_ something whispers) of his world and guess what, buddy? This war isn't going to end, you don't even get furlough.

There are the _really_ bad days, the times he just wants to curl up and leave all the difficulty to someone else. Sorry! Nobody by that name here, just a tired old surgeon. Move along, please. Life itself feels heavy, like someone dropped the entirety of The Swamp on him but still expects him to go about his daily business. On these days he's genuinely morose, staying in bed until the call of nature forces movement. These are the days he avoids his dad, not quite brave enough to handle the added weight of parental concern, and not quite selfless enough to want to.

The vast majority of his days are spent just-floating. Sharp and prickly, his humor has an extra bite to it, that vicious edge even Frank rarely caught. He prefers to avoid his dad on these days as well, but they happen so often it's impossible. This is when he goes about the business of- ah, how did they put it? 'Adjusting to the new parameters of his handicap'. Ha. Adjusting is a pretty name for this new and overwhelming necessity of his life. The utter amount of horse manure he'd shoveled through with all these medical/government people would make even Colonel Potter wince. And these are the days it shows, just a slow grind of frustration and _adjusting_ wearing him thin.

It makes him miss Korea. At least he knew what to expect.

* * *

He dislikes the way his days are denoted now, the way he can read his mood cycling through the symptoms of grief. Again, and again, it seems. An eternal wheel, spinning him around-

 _Hey, folks! How does anger sound today? Spin the wheel, get a prize!_

Except his prizes are just the emotions he wants to keep under control but can't quite anymore, with anger leading the charge more and more often. Which makes him angrier, because before he generally had a pretty good hold on biting people's heads off but now it seems to be a default mode, and the worst of it is that everyone he's angry at he isn't really angry at (except maybe a little, because sure Korea is a whole other continent away but surely they have _some_ ability to pick up a newspaper and put 2+2 together), they are just convenient targets. Because at least they don't dismiss his anger, and so his fear of the world around him vanishing since he can't see it to make sure is soothed.

But the anger makes it hard to breathe sometimes, and think, and he takes whatever is at hand, fights his way through the house, and throws it out the door. Sometimes things shatter, sometimes they thunk. On occasion there is a splashing sound, and every once in a while he tries to throw something that doesn't want to and if his father NEVER mentions the scarf incident again that would be greatly appreciated, thank you.

Still, it takes only the smallest thing to set him off. The news. His father avoiding the news. Neighborhood gossip. Neighbors avoiding gossip because last time was very ugly (he really owes Mrs. Prescott an apology, but maybe later).

He just doesn't feel like _Pierce_ these days, and even during the worst times back at MASH 4077, there was a degree of camaraderie he misses now, the commiseration of individuals who understand exactly what you're upset about whether or not it's said. His father, his doctor, his childhood friends even, have carefully suggested he go out and perhaps...?

It's not something he can bring himself to do, yet. It feels like surrender. He _wants_ his old friends, the ones in Korea, or scattered across the entire country. It is incredibly selfish, but holding on to people mostly occupying the other side of the world is just for him. He can't tell if his dad gets it or not. The way he doesn't push (yet), well. It soothes the anger, just enough.

* * *

He didn't expect Trapper.

He should have, especially with the way Radar had a habit of meddling (recklessly encouraged by Hawkeye himself, so he couldn't even fault the kid). But he didn't, and so when the dulcet tones of 'Anybody home?' came sweeping through the house, Pierce didn't recognize him.

"No! We don't want anything you're selling, whether it's shoes, socks, or religion. Bye-bye now!" Picking up the beans he'd been counting (so maybe he was a bit bored), he threw them in the general direction of what he considered an unwanted visitor.

"Now, is that any way to talk to-ow-or treat your old friend?" The bean throwing stopped.

"Trapper? Trapper John? Trapper John McIntyre, is that really you?"

"Of course it's me, who else would travel all the way from Boston just to visit a friend as lousy as you?"

"Lousy, lousy?! Who's a lousy friend, me?"

"Yes, you! You get back to the states, and who do I hear it from? Not my old battle buddy, oh no, I hear it all the way from Korea!"

"Radar?"

"Who else?"

"I was thinking maybe Frank. I'm so terribly optimistic, you know, that one day his heart will grow a size or ten."

"Forget it. Plus the way I hear it, he's about five too many screws loose, he's about to get sectioned out."

"You're kidding. How did you hear this before me? Radar better not be holding out on me. Me! Who played vet to his revolving circus? Who encouraged his fragile little romantic endeavors? Who-"

"Who once convinced him that General Chancy could breathe fire? The poor kid spent the entire visit walking behind the general with a fire extinguisher."

"Ah, yes. Classic Radar."

"More like classic Hawkeye."

"Are you insinuating something, good sir?"

"I do insinuate. Quite often. But never on Sundays."

"They don't pay you enough for that, I'm sure."

"I have standards, you know."

"Yeah, I do."

Their banter faded, but the vague irritation he'd been battling all day went with it, and for a few moments one Hawkeye Pierce could pretend nothing was wrong, just another day shooting the breeze with an old friend.

"So, listen, Hawk-"

Obviously this meant it was too good to last.

"How are you doing, really?" This was a load of manure.

"Really? How am I doing, _really?_ Or really, how am I doing? Or how really am I doing?"

"Hey, now-"

"No, no no no, you asked, my friend, you asked a question, you get an honest answer from me! You did drive all the way up from Boston just to ask how am I doing, really- You should get a proper answer, _really_." Hands clenched around the stupid beans, Pierce stood up and pounded at the porch rail in emphasis.

"I can't remember what country I'm in, I can't complain to B.J., or Radar, or Klinger, or Colonel Potter, or Margaret, or Father Mulcahy because they're all still stuck in that stupid country and I want to be there with them. I can't do surgery anymore, I can't stand all the polite gossipy questions, I can't stand the silence, I can't be the only thing I ever really truly wanted to be anymore- I _can't see, DAMMIT."_

There was a heartbeat, two, the pain in his hand making Pierce think that he should probably see a doctor. At least there were two at hand- ha, well, one and a half, anyway.

"You know your life isn't over, Pierce, stop thinking you're useless or-"

"Shut up!" Pierce pounded his fist again, then let out a wordless shout of frustration. Trapper waited for him to finish, before carefully moving closer.

"Hey, stop that."

"Stop what, Hawk?"

"That, that pity thing you're doing. Just stop."

"It's not some kind of pity, it's concern for a friend who's upset. We spent a lot of time together over there, I'd like to think we count as more than bunkmates who managed not to kill each other. Frank Burns counts on that level, even."

Hawkeye scoffed, but let Trapper take a look at his hand.

"So give it to me straight, Doc, am I gonna live?"

"Eh, probably. Depends on certain factors, like how hard your head actually is."

"Well, _that_ depends on the subject."

"I'm thinking, at least for tonight, mostly the alcoholic kind."

"Is that a challenge? The blood stirs."

"Then let us away, good Sir Knight."

"As you wish, milady."

* * *

Trapper stays three more days before mentioning IT again. Hawkeye had hoped they could just slide on past the subject for the rest of the visit- a doctor couldn't be gone too long, so obviously it couldn't be too hard to just avoid the subject, right?

The universe loved proving him wrong.

If he hadn't had one of his bad days, perhaps his little avoidance tactic would have worked. As it stood, Trapper couldn't help but notice when his friend stayed in bed long past breakfast, and looked to be heading straight through lunch as well. For his part, Hawkeye had, at least temporarily, lost all will to move. So when the door opened, he gave no reaction.

"Geez, Hawkeye. You look like death."

Pierce knew his role in this play, how he was supposed to snap back some witty banter, or reveal that he'd been fighting off some dangerous new plague, or romancing women all night long- but that lay buried down underneath at least ten miles of anger, resentment, and sorrow, which was itself buried under a thick pile of sheer exhaustion and apathy.

"Hey, Pierce, you're starting to worry me, buddy. You don't look like you're doing too okay."

"Tired." It took a monumental effort to say that much, so when Trapper had the audacity to look worried at the one-word answer, Hawkeye couldn't bring himself to care. Especially since that took effort, too.

"I know- I mean, I really don't know- damn, it's all coming out wrong. Let me start over, okay?" He waited for a response that wasn't coming. "I do not know how you feel exactly because one, I'm not you, and two, I can still see. I do know how you feel because I was over there with you. We slept and breathed and worked and ate the same dirt together for months and months. I- you're my best pal, Hawk, and I really hate what happened to you.

"I'm not good with words in the same way you are, although I like to think that I'm better than Frank or Radar, but let me give it to you straight. Your life isn't over. I know it feels that way, and maybe a part of your life is done. But you, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, who stood up to generals and guns and bombs and even yourself, and said 'I won't take this, I won't back down', that it who you are. You were a surgeon, and maybe the best one I'll ever see, but that wasn't all you were. That wasn't what kept us going those long hauls in the O.R., that wasn't what made people want to be your friend. You think Radar had a clue what a properly reconstructed gut looks like? You think that's what made him admire you?" A moment of silence. Perhaps he is waiting for a response.

"Mm."

"No. He admired your courage, your suave, your honesty. Now I'm not- I'm not saying you can just get back up tomorrow and everything will be all fine as it was before. It's going- you've got another war ahead of you, Pierce. I know the last one banged you up quite a bit, but you made it out alive. It's more than some can say. Not- ah, not to guilt you or anything. I'm not trying to do that. Unless that works. But- but here and now, I have to tell you that Pierce, you have to fight. You have to. I know it's hard, but you've got me, your dad, and a tiny little camp on the other side of the world full of some really good-hearted people who all admire you."

"Mm."

"Even Frank Burns, although perhaps it's more jealousy in his case. And insanity, but what else is new? My point is just- we want to help. We can help. Would you let us?"

"Hm." His hand slipped over the side of the bed.

"I know, Pierce." Trapper caught it.

If a tear or two fell, Trapper was sworn to secrecy. What else are friends for?

* * *

Hawkeye starts trying again.

Not that- he hadn't quite stopped, but it wasn't an actual effort, either. His days aren't all magically better either, there are still those times when it feels like an entire tent of wet canvas has fallen over top of him, but he's getting better at weathering those days. Trapper makes it a habit to call at least twice a week, and is in the process of convincing Hawkeye to come visit him in Boston for a bit. Pierce isn't exactly eager to visit in dead winter, but he senses a losing fight once Trapper drags his wife in.

The cheat.

Time grinds on, and slowly Pierce finds himself adjusting properly. He remembers to check for furniture, and to his dad's frustration forgets to turn the lights on.

As a side note, he really wishes he could see his dad's face when he keeps discovering his son interacting perfectly in dark rooms. He also didn't know his dad's voice could still reach that high.

The adjustments are subtle but all-encompassing, and the day Pierce realizes he doesn't lean towards the mirror to comb his hair ends in a lot of alcohol. At first, he had avoided the adjustments in the increasingly vain hope that he wouldn't need them. Then he fought them as simply accepting his defeat. Once Trapper came for a visit, reminded him that the war was still going on (the metaphorical one, not just the one with guns in Asia), he started accepting them. Reluctantly. They tended to hurt, even as his pride was soothed by yet another thing he could do. A sign that he could make this work.

He accepts calls from Korea quite regularly, and gets to know the Father's Sister quite well. Over the phone, that is, get your mind out of the gutter. Honestly.

It still isn't great. His life is a jangled mess of 'what was' and what's left of 'what could be', but. But. He manages. And Hawkeye Benjamin Franklin Pierce is determined. The rest of his Korean War/PoliceAction free life is going to be good. It will.

Just you watch.

* * *

That's all, folks. Any comments or concerns, let me know. Thanks for reading.


End file.
